Timi.

Timi

A distant, persistent beeping sounds from my bedside table, finally pulling me from the depths of sleep. My hand automatically reaches out, fumbling to silence the alarm before it can rattle the walls any longer. Blinking against the early morning light seeping in through the curtains, I slowly sit up, letting my eyes adjust to the dim glow of the room. For a moment, I sit there, absorbing the stillness around me and the quiet hum of the ceiling fan above. It's like the calm before a storm— a feeling I can't quite shake as I take in the familiar sight of my room.

The walls are painted a faded blue, chipped at the edges where years of wear have left their mark. The posters on the wall are old favorites— faded images of the Super Eagles in action, some inspirational quotes I pasted up a few years back. On my desk, there's a stack of well-thumbed books on math and science, remnants of nights spent studying. Next to them, a framed family photo sits, slightly tilted, showing me, Mom, and Dad smiling in front of a crumbling building during a trip to see extended family. My life in these four walls feels like a world of its own— small, maybe, but steady. Now I'm stepping out of it into something entirely different.

The weight of that realization sinks in as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Today isn't just any day. It's my first day at Greenfield. The school I never thought I'd see, the place I've heard people talk about like it's another planet.

The smell of breakfast drifts up from downstairs, faintly tinged with the scent of coffee. I grab my towel, crossing the small hallway to the bathroom, which is barely wide enough for one person. The tiles are a little worn, and there's a crack in the mirror from when I dropped my toothbrush holder a few years ago. I look at myself in that cracked mirror, seeing a boy who feels far more anxious than he wants to admit. Brushing my teeth, I try to focus on the rhythm of each stroke, grounding myself in the routine, the familiar.

Downstairs, the sounds of clinking plates and my mom humming to herself reach my ears. When I walk into the kitchen, she's already at the stove, flipping a pancake in the pan. She doesn't turn around immediately but senses me there.

"Good morning, Timi," she says without missing a beat, her voice soft yet firm, like it always is. "Breakfast is ready. You'll need a full stomach for today."

I sit down at the table, watching her work. The kitchen is small, just enough room for she and mom to maneuver between the stove, the sink, and the counter piled with some of yesterday's dishes. It's a cozy chaos, one that feels like home. Joy's movements are swift and sure, years of "practice" making every action flow seamlessly.

"You're ready, right?" mom asks, finally turning to look at me. There's a question in her eyes beyond just today's uniform and bag. I nod, and she smiles, a little sadness creeping into her expression.

"Look, Timi," she says, placing a warm plate in front of me and sitting down across the table. "I know things will be different there. They'll have… other ways of doing things. But remember, you don't have to follow them. You're there to study, to learn, and to prove that you can be just as good as anyone. Just don't forget where you're from."

Her hand reaches out to mine, giving it a firm squeeze. "And whatever you do, stay out of trouble. I know kids like to mess around, especially when they have everything handed to them. Just remember, you have something they don't. Don't be like Joy and find trouble with the opposite gender"

I laugh heartily, then I nod, meeting her gaze. "I'll remember, Mom. I promise."

At that moment, Dad steps into the kitchen, his usually serious face softened by a small smile. He walks over to me, placing a strong, reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Remember what we talked about, Timi," he says in his usual calm voice. "Keep your head up, but don't let yourself get pulled into any nonsense. People may look at you differently there, but that doesn't change who you are."

"Yes, sir," I reply, a hint of pride creeping into my voice.

He nods, his eyes holding mine for a moment longer. "Good. I'm proud of you, big brains."

With those words, I feel a warmth settle in my chest. I finish breakfast quickly, say my goodbyes, and head out the door with their reminders echoing in my mind. It's just school, I tell myself. But somehow, I know it's going to be more than that.

---

‌Nila

The first rays of morning sunlight spill through the blinds, casting warm beams across my room. I open my eyes, blinking against the brightness, feeling the stillness of the morning around me. My room is like a scene out of a design catalog—everything neat, carefully placed, a reflection of the order I'm expected to carry in my life. On my dresser, a line of perfume bottles catches the light, each a different color, sparkling like they're part of a display. Next to them, several framed photos show scenes of my "accomplishments"—my graduation from primary school, an award ceremony, a speech competition. Each one tells a story my parents would proudly recount to anyone willing to listen.

But one picture, above all, grabs my attention. It's from last year's embassy gala, taken by some professional photographer hired to capture the night. In it, my father stands tall, his arm around me, a small, proud smile on his face. He looks every bit the dignified diplomat, his suit immaculate, his expression one of quiet pride. I see him as others do—the Ambassador, the man who represents our family and our homeland with grace and authority. He's quite the man, but I'd always wondered...

"When would I have a nice adventure or time to myself?"

"Maybe I'll see my prince charming?"

"Or maybe I'll save a damsel in distress too?"

A soft knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. "Come in," I call, sitting up.

The door opens, and Mom steps in, dressed impeccably as always. She has this air about her—graceful, composed, with a subtle strength. I know her life hasn't always been easy, even though she doesn't talk about it much. As a child of two cultures, she's always managed to navigate both worlds flawlessly. Now she expects the same of me.

"Nila," she begins, walking over to where I'm sitting on the edge of the bed. "Are you ready for today?"

I nod, but there's a flicker of doubt that I can't quite hide. She notices, of course. She always does. She sits down beside me, placing a hand on mine. "Listen to me," she says, her voice soft but firm. "You've always been able to handle anything. You've always been strong. This term isn't just a chance to do something new. It's a chance to prove who you are. And remember—there's no one there who's better than you. You're representing us, Nila, as much as you're representing yourself."

I feel the weight of her words settling on my shoulders. The familiar pressure is there, coiling in my stomach. "I know, Mom. I won't let you down."

She smiles, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "Good. Go and show them what you're made of. And bring home those prizes."

She gives my hand a gentle squeeze, then stands, leaving me alone to gather my thoughts. I get dressed slowly, smoothing out my uniform and brushing my hair, which falls in thick, dark waves past my shoulders. In the mirror, I see the girl my mom sees, the one she's raised me to be. Confident, poised, ready for anything. But underneath, there's still that gnawing doubt. What if I don't live up to her expectations?

With one last glance around my room, I grab my bag and head downstairs. The house is quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of our housekeeper in the kitchen. Mom gives me one last encouraging smile as I head out the door, her final words echoing in my mind.